About Home......

Most recently, I moved to a new country to strengthen my foundations in sound and music. The severe housing crisis has made me ponder “home.”

I have always enjoyed traveling and drifting and was never fixated on “home.” Moving to a new country and starting a new life without a stable environment is stressful. A place with registration is rare; without it, there is no bank account, insurance, or income. More than 200 people compete for a room. I ended up in the same house viewing with my classmate, which was more competitive than a job interview. I signed up for divorce housing, although I’m not married yet. Online, offline. Anytime, anywhere. Scrolling for housing during class and mingling at the concert smoking area.

I tend to be optimistic, but I was helpless. Exactly one month in, I packed for the ninth time while recovering from a fever. I cried for the first time, so sick of endless packing. This time, I moved to a living room. The landlady sheltered my bed with cardboard to create privacy because I am a girl. Then it collapsed... Two weeks later, I had no clue where I would be. The living room has tenants lined up five months ahead. The flashbacks of my wooden minka room in Tokyo and my warm landlord. At night, I gazed at my reflection in the window. My will weakened. What am I doing here? Was it the right decision to leave my comfortable life in Japan?

The last time I contemplated the importance of home was when a housemate in Tokyo caught Covid. I stayed outside wandering around; I didn’t want to bother or trouble friends. I realised the ones we can go back to was family. It was a time of not seeing family for three years. I was by myself. Thinking back, the move to Japan had its difficulties. We need a Japanese guarantor over 20 years old for the Japanese housing contract. I was 17, and alone. The second time, moving back to Tokyo remained a struggle. I stayed in my friend’s closet for three weeks, like the cartoon character Doraemon, which I was thrilled about. I realised I didn't need anything more than that, I was content in the closet. However, on the third night, I cried my lungs out, not because of the closet, but my father’s sudden death. 

Now, in a tiny three-month storage room, with the possibility of extension. Never had I felt so content with a piece of wood. A table in a quiet room. My books can finally breathe, and not suffocate in a suitcase. Under other people’s roof, live under their rules. A highly sensitive roommate. My next challenge is to maintain extreme cleanliness. A kitchen without smell or a stain, a bathroom without a water droplet, and timing my shower time to five minutes. When I clean every day, at the back of my mind, the clumsy me is worried about getting kicked out. My usual reckless self, highly resistant to rules. Now, the temperature outside is so low that I can no longer feel my toes. I need to survive. I need a place to stay. I have to obey the rules.

Home creates mental stability, a basis of our everyday life. I hope everyone has one.